


The White Pillar

by hellkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-12 23:28:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just an idea I had kicking around: schmoopy Drift/Wing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Do you want to come with me?” Wing looked over to where Drift was slumped on the couch in his front room, poking idly at a datapad.

Drift snorted, elbowing up to a sitting position.  “Not like I have much choice.”

“You have a choice,” Wing said. 

“Yeah, I remember. Go with you or stay here, locked in.” Drift scowled, almost as if he knew how much it hurt Wing to see how unhappy he was.  Dai Atlas had warned him about this, that Drift was the kind that used his pain to hurt others. 

Wing gave a helpless sigh. He wanted Drift to be happy here so much.  It did hurt, but he tried to take it as a sign of hope that at least Drift wanted to hurt him; at least his pain mattered to Drift.  “It would be something new, at least,” Wing offered. Maybe novelty had an appeal.  He could only offer.

The mouth twitched, and the feet swung off, onto the floor. “Is it boring?”

Wing tried to hide the seed of a smile. “I’m not sure what you don’t find boring, Drift. But it’s something to do, and I thought you might want to get out a bit.”

Half a sneer, but he knew that the truth penetrated: Drift hated being captive, and hated being kept in one place. Any chance to move around, even just in the larger containment of the city, was something.  “Fine,” the mech said, rising. “Let’s go.” He managed to make it look as ungracious as possible, but it made Wing turn aside to hide a grin. 

“Aren’t you even going to ask where we’re going?”

“Does it matter?”

“I think so.” A beat. “It’s the White Pillar, the center of Crystal City.” He led to the window, pointing out to the long spire of the Pillar. At one point, it had been the tallest structure in Crystal City: some said it still ought to be.  Even so, though, it commanded the horizon, almost gleaming even in the false dusk of the city. 

He watched Drift study it, for a moment, saw curiosity bubble in his face, and then get quashed under the Decepticon’s habitual silence.  It just reaffirmed to Wing that under there, under the scowl and the hostility, there really was a kind, curious, bright spark. If only Drift would give it space. 

[***]

The walk to the Pillar had gone like every walk with Drift: the mech glowering at everyone who even looked his way, a growl simmering in his vocalizer. Drift missed so much of the city that way, looking only for hostility, not beauty, and trying to drum some up when none appeared. 

Wing hoped the Pillar would help. It was a place of beauty, after all, the first structure of the new settlement, the symbol of their contract with the metrotitan.  He could feel the thrum of it under his feet, as he crossed the threshold, to the first curving path of white pavement.  Drift took it in with a shrug, the ornate scrollwork above the door, without running his hand over the inscription in the ornate calligraphy of Old Cybex—the words, the history, remained unactivated, then, Drift walking right past the explanation of what this was.

Wing wanted to point it out to him, a lesson, in a sense, but he knew Drift well enough that it would just get thrust aside with the other’s habitual scowl.  Better to let him question, himself. As Dai Atlas would say, one only knows what one has built the desire to know. Right now, Drift thought he wanted to know nothing, following Wing up the curving path.

The first landing already glowed in soft pastel light, that seemed to soften even Drift’s hard edges.  Wing felt a proprietary sort of pride, as he gestured them around the last curve, where an arabesqued arch spilled the ramp into the shimmering pool of the fountain room. Water spilled and jetted, tinkling and rushing, vibrant and active cascades from the ceiling, the walls, jetting up from the surface in a cascade of noise and vision, the air practically bright with the wonderful mist and the bright colors sent from the fountainheads, turning the droplets into jewels of light, turning the whole space into an ephemeral, ever-changing display of color and sound.

Wing stepped down, into the pool, the water warm and swirling around his ankle gyros, color and warmth eddying through him as he turned to offer a hand to Drift, who stood, unsure, on the verge.

Less unsure, Wing thought, perhaps, than captivated, his optics wide and rapt, trying to take it all in, the color and sound and movement  and the sweet tang of the air in a symphony of beauty around him.

Even his mouth had softened, the scowl mollified, tempered, as it was when he slept, when all the anger and hardness and distrust melted away.

Drift caught the proffered hand with his gaze, shrugging it off, but stepping down into the pool, as if accepting an unspoken challenge, letting gthe warm water splash and flow around his feet.

“What do you think?” Wing asked, finally, feeling himself aglow with the spirit of the place, with Drift’s response, the rapt attention he was failing at masking.

“…weird,” Drift said, after a moment, the cascading falls of water blunting the edges of his harsh voice, taking speech and making it part of the music of this place, another level of sound and sensation.  Wing felt a bittersweet pang at the word: he couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be Drift, to be one whose first contact with the sublime had so little to compare with. It gave a glimpse, sharp and dark, into the ugly, cold world Drift knew, winding like a wire around Wing’s spark. He tried, but failed, to imagine the word ‘beautiful’ perching on Drift’s mouthplates.

It was seed, he hoped, a new thing that might bloom and flower, given time.

He could hope. He could nurture the seed, and it seemed to swell within him like a mission, as he turned. “Shall we go farther?” He led Drift in among the fountains and jets of water, so that the water misted on their armor, and they were surrounded by it, the margins of the room lost among the splashing display of light and glitter.  And Wing tried to tear his optics from Drift’s wondering face, curiosity warring with the mask of sullenness he wore so often that it had, perhaps, become brittle.  He wanted to tease that Drift at least didn’t look bored, but the moment was too precious for that. Still he held the glance near his spark, planting his own seeds, as they meandered, unhurried, through the foaming, singing labyrinth of water.

[***]

Drift seemed less resistant, at least, as they left, their footplates leaving wet marks on the milky white pavements, their bodies cooling as the fine mist evaporated. 

“This,” Wing said, less leading this time than walking along, “is one of my favorites.”  He felt that sublime sort of pleasure in sharing something special with another. He’d bypassed the meditation room, figuring the silence and space would merely make Drift restless, but this…this would entice him.

He hoped.

The doorway was circular, this time, framed with a fractal of arcs, leading into a room of stark, cool white, less spectacular than the fountain room: merely a series of grey metal circular plates set into the flooring, the rest of the room blank and unremarkable, even the piers supporting the pillar plain and sleek.

Drift frowned, obviously unimpressed. Wing pressed on, grinning, as he stepped onto one of the plates, letting the pleasure show, writ large, on his face as the pure sonic tone, a solid, single pitch, vibrated, singing through the metal plate, through Wing himself.

Drift stepped closer, puzzled, hearing the pitch, but not feeling it, not isolated, as Wing was, on the chladni plate. Wing pulled him closer, onto the plate with him, into the intimate space. The plate was large enough to accommodate mechs like Dai Atlas—it was merely a squeeze for the two smaller mechs, bodies touching, EM fields tangling together. Wing could feel, then, the surprised tremble of Drift’s body, as the vibration caught him, too, singing through the parts of his body that resonated with the frequency.

“And here,” Wing said, stepping backward, drawing Drift along with him, onto another platform, a different frequency, a different vibration. It was called the Song Room for a reason: this was where the metrotitan’s voice sang through them all. It was a beautiful system they’d devised, so many aeons ago: the metrotitan giving of his energy to power the city, getting in return the living energy of the mechs who lived here: their pleasure and gratitude and joy.

Drift followed him onto the second plate, the sullen mask eroding, something almost like surprise on his face as the new frequency sang another system into life.  And when Wing moved a third time, to another plate, Drift stepped with him, almost simultaneously, almost choreographed, and when Wing dared lean in, to press his trembling mouthplates to Drift’s, it was like connecting a final circuit, Drift’s hands clutching at his, his voice singing a sweeter note as his mouth opened to the kiss, like a flower bursting from its bud, the whiteness of the room no longer blank and empty, but a blaze of purity and desire. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> apologies for taking so long to get this up. sticky, frot, and a wee bit of angst at the end. OH and more headcanon. Yeah. x_x

The kiss...was warm and electric, the sound singing through both of them, their lip plates vibrating together, warm and pleasurable, and Drift had followed Wing, wordlessly, letting his hand be linked in Wing's, like lovers', as he led them out, around the corkscrew platform, up to the next level: the highest level Wing had been to. There was one above it, of course, one rarely used, the room of giving, where a mech gave the whole of  his spark and life and memory to the metrotitan.  He could feel the weight of the room above him, the ultimate surrender, the ultimate yielding.  He'd known a few mechs who had given themselves that way, and though it was always treated as a joyous thing: a celebration, he'd failed, so often, to find it happy, thinking only of the friend he'd lose, of the life and memories that would fade. Oh,the metrotitan would hold them, energy and memory, so that nothing was lost, forever.  But still, there was something too much like loss about it for Wing to think of.

This was better, he thought, a way to share the joining of mechs with the metrotitan.  He pulled Drift into the room, his hands almost trembling, a smile quirking on his mouthplates.  "They say," he whispered, wanting nothing more than to lose himself in the blue glow of Drift's optics, "that one can speak to the divine from here." 

Drift looked around the room, the berth, large and inviting, obvious in its purpose, his own face twitching into a smile, wry and amused. "Metaphors."

Wing wanted to protest, but then...he didn't want to argue, not with this laid before him. Instead, he backed Drift over to the berth, pulling them both down upon it in a tangle of limbs, arms and hands and legs and mouths twining together, Drift as eager for this as he was, despite his attempt at aloofness. 

Drift was all the sweeter for that resistance, like a treat long denied.  And Wing enjoyed kissing the frown off the mouth, kissing the sarcastic edge off the smile, his hands stroking tenderly over the armor, over Drift, all him, repaired and original, the mech who'd lived in the gutters, fought with the Decepticons burning with zeal more than wisdom, and now...here. 

Drift followed Wing to the berth, as though magnetized, spread palms stroking over the jet’s sleek armor, breathing in the fresh polish scent, the aroused tang of his EM field.  The hands found the forward wingstruts, and jerked out, abruptly, spreading Wing’s flightpanels sharply. Wing gave a gasp of pain, flightpanels trembling at the sudden motion, before Drift began stroking along the panel seams, the grounder’s own field flaring with arousal. The pain ebbed, morphing into a piquant pleasure, and Wing curled his body up against Drift’s, his pelvic span pressing up into the other mech.

Drift looked up, catching Wing’s gaze, as his hand slid down, cupping the jet’s interface panel, his mouth quivering between a smirk and a question. 

Wing responded with a soft moan, empty of words, but filled with meaning, his interface panel clicking aside.  Drift sucked a sharp in-vent, feeling the bare brushed-metal under his probing fingertips. Wing’s own hands swept around the rib struts, curling around Drift’s hip frame, in an open hint. 

Drift growled, his hand flicking to his own interface panel, hand rough on the metal, almost tearing his own panel aside.  His spike jutted out, slick and glossy with lubricant, grey and gold and Wing could already feel its heat against him as Drift lowered his weight, pressing the erect spike between them, his hips grinding against Wing’s. Wing could feel the heat and wet smear of lubricant over his own equipment covers. His spike, behind its cover, tingled and pressed against the thin petals of metal separating them, the valve’s calipers cycling emptily, wanting. 

Drift continued, his ventilations picking up tempo, and it struck Wing that this was…this was how Drift intended to do it.  He frowned, squirming his hips to wriggle a hand between them, cupping around the spike. Drift looked up, air hissing through gritted dentae.

“Please,” Wing said.

Drift’s supraorbital ridges knitted. “You want to?”  There was a hesitance in his voice, an incredulity, as if he couldn’t believe Wing wanted this, wanted him.

Wing answered with a soft laugh, tipping his hips up, his valve cover clicking aside.  It was something, he thought, like honor, holding Drift back. He’d heard that Decepticons considered the valve to be weak, submissive, and taking it a violation, a conquest. And it meant something, maybe even more than Drift could parse, that he was holding back, that he was asking for permission.

Then Drift entered, a sharp, almost stabbing thrust, driving himself in like conquest. Wing arced into the force of it, feeling the whole world Drift knew in the violence, even as the pain ebbed, bleeding into pleasure, hot and intense.   

The overload rose through them both, a cresting, frothing wave of sensation, vital and powerful, crashing toward them both with a silent sort of thunder, Drift’s hands digging into the jet’s shoulders, his mouth torn open into a keen of unfamiliar pleasure, optics flaring white.

Then the room seemed to fall away,  dissolve, as though solidity became merely translucent, and then immaterial.   The space was colorless and all colors at once, that brightness of white light, not sterile and cold but filled with energy.  And Wing felt a massive presence, without shape, without form, all around him, as though he was floating in the metrotitan's very consciousness.

He could feel a patience, big and void, around him, expectant.  His thoughts were filled with Drift, had been for days, he realized, an afterglow of the brightness he’d seen before.  The question came to him, wordless, as though spinning together from the expanse of his own being, filaments of purity twining together, live and growing, simple and pure: will Drift ever be happy?

A movement, the light seeming to swell and bulge, a kind vibration he knew he felt every day under his feet, a steady pulse of the heart of Crystal City. And the metrotitan, who scorned a name as a thing of separateness, answered, the words diaphanous and soft, brushing like webs against Wing’s mind.  Drift would be, could be, if he could ever let himself, if he would ever stop turning himself away, unworthy.

He came to, Drift cradled against him, metrotitan’s ‘voice’ soft as petals in his mind, the mouth sweet and tender, and he stroked over the kibble, the deep spaulders, the jut of the cheekguards of Drift's helm, and tried to see the mech from the gutters, the violent Decepticon, here. No, there was only a mech who burns with loneliness, who seemed edged with regret.  One who didn't get close because proximity brought pain. 

I don't want to bring pain to you, Wing thought, stroking a hand over the helm, up a sleek finial.

Drift awoke, blue optics unfocused and drowsy, half-puzzled, his hands at first clenching on Wing's body, and then relaxing, melting into the previous languor.  Wing offered a smile, tentative, the metrotitan's words echoing in his memory, and tips his face up, pleading a kiss. He's almost surprised when Drift responds, at first a cursory bump, shy and awkward, before flowering into a proper kiss, lipplates parting, as though tasting Wing's mood.  It felt like a seal on a beautiful moment, something fixing it in place for eternity, for memory.

But curiosity got the better of him, as Drift slowly, lingeringly, pulled away, posting up onto one arm.  "And did the metrotitan answer you?" He was burning to know the question Drift would ask, but ritual forbade it, only allowing this oblique question, formal and simple. 

Drift's optics slipped their focus, skimming down the white body, hands appreciative and soft over one nacelle, one finger toying with one of the manifold pinions.  His mouth twisted, not like his usual sarcastic, bitter grin, but something that was trying to bridle in sorrow. "Yes."

Wing shifted, optics searching Drift’s face, as the other seemed to struggle on the brink of something.  “We could leave?”  Maybe that would help, maybe that would restore the core of Drift’s face, the surety, however sullen, of his mouth.  Because that looked better than this soft pain that unsettled Wing’s spark, even though part of him knew, petal edged and silky with the voice of the metrotitan, that Drift needed to hurt, needed to feel.  It was a harsh lesson Drift would have to learn, and Wing was both hurt and humbled by the part he was to play in it.

Drift’s mouth compressed, and he lowered himself onto the jet again, tucking his face between the audial flare and a shoulder nacelle. “…not yet.” The future was already reaching for them, with its poignant, dark lesson, and neither was in a hurry to find it.

**Author's Note:**

> Blah blah blah here. 
> 
> Partly prompted by my own discomfort with the idea that Crystal City was powered by the metrotitan. I'd so much rather it be an exchange of energy. 
> 
> The second room is BAD SCIENCE based on [ chladni plates ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qf0t4qIVWF4) (turn your volume down if you watch it!)


End file.
